Life, were Thy Pains as are the Pains of Hell

Life, were thy pains as are the pains of hell, / So hardly to be borne, yet to be borne, / And all thy boughs more grim with wasp and thorn

Than armoured bough stood ever; too chill to spell

With the warm tongue, and sharp with broken shell

Thy ways, whereby in wincing haste forlorn

The desperate foot must travel, blind and torn, / Yet must I cry: So be it; it is well.

So fair to me thy vineyards, nor less fair

Than the sweet heaven my fathers hoped to gain;

So bright this earthly blossom spiked with care, / This harvest hung behind the boughs of pain, / Needs must I gather, guessing by the stain

I bleed, but know not wherefore, know not where.